Steve Berry: The Charlemagne Pursuit

7. An examination of NR-1, performed to ascertain if any obvious engineering deficiencies could be found in the sister vessel, revealed that the negative battery plates had been impregnated with mercury to increase their life. Mercury is forbidden for use on submersibles. Why that rule was relaxed on this design is unclear. But if batteries on board NR-1A caught fire, which, according to repair logs, has happened on both NR-1 and 1A, the resulting mercury vapors would have proven fatal. Of course, there's no evidence of any fire or battery failure.

8. USS Holden, commanded by LCDR Zachary Alexander, was dispatched on November 23, 1971, to NR-1A's last known position. A specialized reconnaissance team reported finding no trace of NR-1A. Extensive sonar sweeps revealed nothing. No radiation was detected. Granted, a large-scale search and rescue operation may have yielded a different result, but the crew of NR-1A signed an operational order, prior to leaving, acknowledging that in the event of a catastrophe, there would be no search and rescue. Clearance for this extraordinary action came directly from Chief of Naval Operations in a classified order, a copy of which the Court has reviewed.

Opinions The failure to find NR-1A does not lessen the obligation to identify and correct any practice, condition, or deficiency subject to correction that may exist, given that NR-1 continues to sail. After carefully weighing the limited evidence, the Court finds there is no proof of cause or causes for NR-1A's loss. Clearly, whatever happened was catastrophic, but the submarine's isolated location and lack of tracking, communications, and surface support make any conclusions that the Court may make, as to what happened, purely speculative.

Recommendations As part of continuing efforts to obtain additional information as to the cause for this tragedy, and to prevent another incident from happening with NR-1, a further mechanical examination of NR-1 shall be conducted, as and when practicable, using the latest testing techniques. The purpose of such testing would be to determine possible damage mechanisms, to evaluate secondary effects thereof, to provide currently unavailable data for design improvements, and to possibly determine what may have happened to NR-1A.

MALONE SAT IN HIS ROOM AT THE POSTHOTEL. THE VIEW OUT THE second-floor windows, past Garmisch, framed the Wetterstein Mountains and the towering Zugspitze, but the sight of that distant peak only brought back what had happened two hours ago.

He'd read the report. Twice.

Naval regulations required that a court of inquiry be convened immediately after any maritime tragedy, staffed with flag officers, and charged with discovering the truth.

But this inquiry had been a lie.

His father had not been on a mission in the North Atlantic. USS Blazek didn't even exist. Instead, his father had been aboard a top-secret submarine, in the Antarctic, doing God knows what.

He remembered the aftermath.

Ships had combed the North Atlantic, but no wreckage had been found. News reports indicated that Blazek, supposedly a nuclear-powered submersible being tested for deep bottom rescue, had imploded. Malone remembered what the man in uniform-not a vice admiral from the submarine force, whom he later learned would normally break the news to a boat commander's wife, but a captain from the Pentagon-had said to his mother: "They were in the North Atlantic, twelve hundred feet down."

Either he'd lied or the navy had lied to him. No wonder the report remained classified.

American nuclear submarines rarely sank. Only three since 1945.Thresher, from faulty piping. Scorpion, because of an unexplained explosion. Blazek, cause unknown. Or more properly, NR-1A, cause unknown.

Every one of the press accounts he'd reread with Gary over the summer had talked of the North Atlantic. The lack of wreckage was attributed to the water's depth and canyon-like bottom features. He'd always wondered about that. Depth would have ruptured the hull and flooded the sub, so debris would have eventually floated to the surface. The navy also wired the oceans for sound. The court of inquiry noted that acoustical signals had been heard, but the sounds explained little and too few were listening in that part of the world to matter.

Dammit.

He'd served in the navy, joined voluntarily, took an oath, and upheld it.

They hadn't.

Instead, when a submarine sank somewhere in the Antarctic, no flotilla of ships had combed the area, probing the depths with sonar. No reams of testimony, charts, drawings, letters, photographs, or operational directives were accumulated as to cause. Just one lousy ship, three days of inquiry, and four pages of a nothing report.

Bells clanged in the distance.

He wanted to ram his fist through the wall. But what good would that do?

Instead he reached for his cell phone.

CAPTAIN STERLING WILKERSON, US NAVY, STARED PAST THE frosty plate-glass window at the Posthotel. He was discreetly positioned across the street, inside a busy cDonald's. People trudged back and forth outside, bundled against the cold and a steady snow.

Garmisch was an entanglement of congested strasses and pedestrian-only quarters. The whole place seemed like one of those toy towns at FAO Schwarz, with painted Alpine cottages nestled deep in cotton batting, sprinkled thick with plastic flakes. Tourists surely came for the ambience and the nearby snowy slopes. He'd come for Cotton Malone and had watched earlier as the ex-Magellan Billet agent, now a Copenhagen bookseller, killed a man then leaped from a cable car, eventually making his way to ground level and fleeing in his rental car. Wilkerson had followed, and when Malone headed straight for the Posthotel and disappeared inside, he'd assumed a position across the street, enjoying a beer while he waited.

He knew all about Cotton Malone.

Georgia native. Forty-eight years old. Former naval officer. Georgetown law school graduate. Judge Advocate General's Corps. Justice Department agent. Two years ago Malone had been involved in a shoot-out in Mexico City, where he'd received his fourth wound in the line of duty and apparently reached his limit, opting for an early retirement, which the president personally granted. He'd then resigned his naval commission and moved to Copenhagen, opening an old-book shop.

All that, Wilkerson could understand.

Two things puzzled him.

First, the name Cotton. The file noted that Malone's legal name was Harold Earl. Nowhere was the unusual nickname explained.

And second, how important was Malone's father? Or, more accurately, his father's memory? The man had died thirty-eight years ago.

Did that still matter?

Apparently so, since Malone had killed to protect what Stephanie Nelle had sent.

He sipped his beer.

A breeze swirled past outside and enhanced the dance of snowflakes. A colorful sleigh appeared, drawn by two prancing steeds, its riders tucked beneath plaid blankets, the driver snatching at the bridles.

He understood a man like Cotton Malone.

He was a lot like him.

Thirty-one years he'd served the navy. Few rose to the rank of captain, even fewer beyond to the admiralty. Eleven years he'd been assigned to naval intelligence, the past six overseas, rising to Berlin bureau chief. His service record was replete with successful tours at tough assignments. True, he'd never leaped from a cable car a thousand feet in the air, but he'd faced danger.

He checked his watch. 4:20 PM.

Life was good.

The divorce to wife number two last year had not been costly. She'd actually left with little fanfare. He then lost twenty pounds and added some auburn to his blond hair, which made him appear a decade short of fifty-three. His eyes were more alive thanks to a French plastic surgeon who'd tightened the folds. Another specialist eliminated the need for glasses, while a nutritionist friend taught him how to maintain greater stamina through a vegetarian diet. His strong nose, taut cheeks, and sharp brow would all be assets when he finally rose to flag rank.